Saturday, September 15, 2012

A knock on our front door sends dogs into frenzy
barking.All activity stops,
though the television seems to gain volume while we wrestle the dogs out the
back door.They grumble muffled
last words.

The neighbor is sorry to disturb us.Wants to share something, no, no need
to come inside.Wayne stays in his
chair with dinner in his lap, I go out onto the porch.

Something is that there is a homeless person, a drunk
homeless person, a drunk homeless woman loose on our lane.She was sitting on the grass talking to
herself when the neighbor noticed her.He was watering, sprinkling with the hose by hand where the main
sprinkler had missed.When he went
over to turn the water off, she disappeared, though she’d seen him and run off,
swerving side to side down the lane, he saw that much.

Look over here, he motions with his hand, and I follow
him.There, in the grass of
Sandy’s lawn, under the mulberry tree, is the woman’s kit.Homeless issue blue sleeping bag, black
bag for whatever, and a white plastic bag with her wine in it, a forlorn little
abandoned heap.She was nowhere in
sight.I could smell sprinklings
of wine, but it wasn’t hers.

I don’t want to get her in trouble, you know, by calling the
cops.She’s not hurting
anything.I just wanted you to
know, so, you know, you’d lock your door.Course, you have the dogs, so don’t have to worry.

Ok, I say.I’ll
be watchful.Thank you.

Inside the house, I go back to my writing room, cluttered
with paper stacked and toppling over the printer.Books piled on one another, towers grown and dusty.The windows are open to catch the
harvest breezes, though I may close them tonight because it is getting colder
these evenings.

A rock rough voice tumbles through the screen, a voice
without language, hoarse, concerned, urging speed and caution, fugitive
tense.I know it is her, come back
to reclaim her belongings.

Our house is small, rusty red with white trim. Oriole and
hummingbird feeders hang from the eves, feeders for the seed eaters, green
edged pink petunias in the blue ceramic planter, decorate the tattered
lawn.It is a remnant of a house
for me. I have been cleaning it out, room by room.Vacuuming the ghosts of motherhood, of romance and longing,
of college papers, ancient ledgers, and photographs of a childhood on a
dairy.Making room for my dreams,
though now and then despair creeps in and knocks over a pile of magazines.

I have been frightened of homeless people.They are too raw for me, wearing their sadness,
their fear, want, end-of-the-road weariness in stench and rags.Muttering and grumbling and sometimes
swearing aloud as though they are in an argument with a ghost, I have just
steered away, look away, stay away, run my fright away.

It was a surprise to note that I recognized the woman’s
belongings.She has been on our
lane before, been surprised before, to disappear quickly.Her things have been in the ditch a
little further down, beyond where the water goes over the road in the winter
after too much rain has fallen in a short time.There is a culvert there.A double culvert.My Labrador, Emerson, has barked at the dark hole when we are walking, barked
at shadows and spiders and fast lizards.I have shushed him, raced up the embankment like there are weird
energies chasing me, hurried home.

This past spring my neighbor and I found a litter of five
fat kittens in her pump house.I
called the people who rescue and trap feral cats and they came out and picked
them up.Raised them for adoption,
for their forever homes.

One dark winter morning I was loading the car for work, when
a cold nose pushed into my leg.Of
course I jumped, to find a stocky wet Labrador and his partner, a Great Dane
mix, hanging back behind him.They
looked at me like, “she can do it!She’ll take us home!” and I said, ok, load up, and they did.I checked collars and found phone
numbers and called their people who left work and hurried right over to pick up
their wanderers, cried on my porch because they love them so, and were afraid
of losing them.

About a year ago I came home from work to find a young, red-shouldered
hawk in the house.The bird rescue
people explained to me how to get it out safely.After following their multi-stepped process, I simply opened
the back door and shooed it outside.It flew low over the yard, swooped up and over the gate, didn’t even
flap its wings to gain speed and elevation.

I want to know, who do you call for a lost, feral woman?How would one catch her?

Often late at night I hear coyote calls echo over the
vineyards.Once fire truck sirens
woke me, and I lay in my bed afraid to inhale, for fear of bringing attention
to myself while dreams crumbled into corners.The siren wailed out of hearing and in the silence suspended
over the valley a chuckle burbled, yapped, barked into a high howl.Other voices joined the choir, carrying
the call up and over the hills and stopped abruptly as it began.I haven’t heard them for a while, feel
a missing for them, hope all is well with their tribe.

Obviously the homeless woman does not belong to anyone.

No one brings her a cup of coffee in the morning, provides shelter
or solace.I wonder how she
manages to get up in the morning, does she wait for the sun to warm her limbs
and joints into rising?Would she
like a cup of coffee?

Is anyone searching for her?Missing her?

Well, you know, Laura.Some people want to be homeless.

Is she an incurable homeless person?

I don’t know.I
have written myself down to resignation.There is a woman outside my window.She is alone.Untended, wild.

Perhaps right here, in this moment of empty silence,
guidance will emerge.There are
places to call to inquire as to possible actions.For the time being, I may put out coffee for her.

There may be no other place on the planet quite as beautiful as this Sonoma County! The grape harvest has begun. Days are hot, nights cool, colors exquisite. Hafiz probably wanders the countryside, maybe drives my car, throws my camera on the floor, dogs in the back, directs me. And I thank him for his insistence. I love September.

About Me

Swallowtail Butterflies are fresh and new by the first of April. Larabee is a hidden valley created by the Eel River. Perhaps I have lived here since time began, a butterfly in the willows on the banks of a Northern river.